Lunar Vengeance: A Collection of Science Fiction Stories

by Fearn, John Russell

  “But can’t you do something?” Mason demanded hoarsely. “The disaster may not be so big this full Moon, but those electromagnetic beams will keep on tearing down our ionic shield until the next full Moon—then trouble will blast down in real earnest. Don’t you see?”

  “Yes, I see,” Hart acknowledged grimly. “But I can’t get into the underground anyway. The caves, rills, and chasms are all sealed—for reasons quite obvious now. I don’t think any life exists here anymore, but it’s evident that machinery was left behind situated under each special crater and ready wired—Say, wait a minute!”

  Hart broke off, thinking. “Under each crater,” he repeated slowly. Then his voice tautened. “There’s one chance, just one! I’ve no explosive powerful enough to wreck the place, and I could not get back to Earth if I wanted. The only alternative is for you to fire at this satellite with your ballista guns from Tri-Konam!”

  “What!” Mason exclaimed. “But it’s impossible! They’re so old and—”

  “But they’re intact,” Hart interrupted. “And Andrews himself said it wouldn’t be difficult to free their bores of those stone blocks. It’s the only way: and it must be done in time for the rocks to land here before the next full Moon. As soon as you can possibly do it. I’ll guide your aim by radio from here.”

  “And you?” Mason asked anxiously.

  “Yes, what about you?” Beryl’s voice asked in alarm. “If we succeed with these ballistas we’ll give the Moon a terrible pounding, and you might—”

  “Get those things right and fire!” Hart ordered doggedly. “Get Dr Andrews busy. I’ll look after myself…When you have got the guns working contact me.”

  And to prevent further argument he switched off…

  For a long time he sat thinking, scowling through the port onto the sun-drenched, inhospitable scene. He was only just commencing to realize that he had virtually signed his own death warrant. If he was to direct the meteorites’ paths by radio he certainly couldn’t get very far away from here. And one meteor a bit off the target might very easily mean—

  “Looks like you let yourself in for something, feller,” he said, getting to his feet; then more for the sake of something to do than anything else he went out into the blaze to confirm his earlier suspicions that all means of entering the underground were sealed up.

  They were—utterly. For a long time he surveyed those deadly rays pointing upwards, made estimates of distance with his instruments for target-direction purposes, then glanced towards the green Earth on which they were focused. A nostalgic feeling swept over him. He thought how nice it would be to have security again and Beryl beside him.

  “Dope!” he grunted, and trailed back to his battered machine. Thereafter he stuck to the ship. The heat was too intense outside for prolonged investigation anyway. So he spent the time thinking, eating, sleeping, and marvelling somewhat at the different rate of time upon the Moon. The 14-day lunar day had gone again at a surprising rate and cold, inexorable night shut down again.

  Then at last his nerve racking vigil was broken as the radio gave out its deep signal tone. The moment he snapped the switch Mason’s tired but eager voice came through.

  “Still there, Hart? Well, we managed it— Thanks to Andrews! Restoration work is finished and the ballista towers are ready to fire. But why don’t you leave the Moon and let the astronomers chart the target accurately?”

  “How can they?” Hart demanded. “There’s no air to fire the rocks as they fall. All that will be visible on Earth will be friction flashes…No, I’ve got to direct operations. And besides,” he finished dryly, “I guess I’m here for keeps. I smashed the ship to blazes when I landed.”

  “Hart!” came Beryl’s voice, aghast.

  “Forget it, Berry,” he said quietly.

  “I’m doing useful service right here, I guess. Remember me now and again when a space lane service is opened—” He stopped, finished crisply, “Okay, make your first shot and I’ll tell you what happens.”

  In his mind’s eye Hart could picture Mason giving the signal. He left the radio, almost heedless of Mason’s curt announcement that the first boulder had been fired…Standing at the port he watched the backdrop of blazing stars—the distant worlds. He counted seconds mechanically…Seconds—minutes—an hour. And it was an hour that drifted into eternity, it seemed.

  He was cold and cramped with waiting when all of a sudden, without the least warning, a titanic concussion from somewhere near the horizon shook the very ground whereon the spaceship stood. He stared out towards distant Ptolomey. And more rocks descended, chipping pieces out of the mountain ranges, drawn by the Moon’s gravity field.

  “Nice going!” he shouted into the radio. “You’re hitting right in to the Ptolomey area. Keep it up—and aim for Tycho later on. You’ll have to hit Ptolomey and Copernicus as best you can: I’m too far away to direct you. But Tycho’s a cinch. Seems like the initial speed through Earth’s atmosphere is so swift the boulders hardly lose any size. And here there is no diminution at all, of course. What’s your initial take-off speed?”

  “Thirty miles a second,” Mason said.

  “Okay—keep going.”

  So, after another long wait, bombardment began in real earnest. Hart watched in fascinated interest as boulder after boulder came flying invisibly from the void to hammer beyond the horizon. Here and there they missed hopelessly as a quirk of gravity in space had drawn them off their trajectory. One such landed with shattering force not fifty yards from the spaceship, made it bounce so violently that Hart thought he was a goner for sure.

  But there were more hits than misses. In the still abysmal dark of the lunar night he saw flash after flash from the distant craters as rocks slammed into rocks, battering—pounding—wrecking. Harder and thicker they came — The Copernicus rays went out!

  Hart gave a whoop of joy and yelled the news over the radio. Encouraged by this success the bombardment started again on a new angle, all four ballistas obviously at work now. In thirty minutes of incessant hammering Ptolomey went of the same way as Copernicus, and like its fellow both violet and “lunacy” rays expired.

  “Okay, now for Tycho!” Hart cried. “I’ll direct you!”

  This time, after the usual interval, the onslaught was dangerously near to him. Then one of those erring boulders came whizzing from nowhere, hit the nose of the spaceship and sent it pitching into the emptiness. Stunned with the shock Hart went flying — But he didn’t lose consciousness.

  He groped his way to his feet, the very ground rolling and shaking under him now with the incessant fall of rocks hammering into Tycho crater. Right now he felt he needed some kind of movement, release from this damnable prison which barred his view of the crater proper. If he had to be snuffed out he preferred it outside anyway, where he might have a chance to see what was coming.

  “You’re on the target,” he said into the radio. Then with an effort. “Goodbye, and good luck.”

  He didn’t wait to hear an answer. Switching off he stumbled outside, moving stiffly in his clumsy spacesuit. For a while he stood contemplating the amazing sight of rocks by the dozen raining one after another into Tycho—but those two obstinate rays still continued. One only could be obliterated by covering the crater with rocks, smothering the isotopes power to reflect; and the other by enough force to smash through to whatever machinery lay buried below.

  For an hour he watched, saw the “lunacy” radiation dim to a mere nothing—but that obstinate violet ray remained. He turned back to the ship, intending to radio a change of position—but at the identical moment a “wanderer” slammed down clean on top of the ship and smashed it flat.

  Hart ducked, lying flat as pieces of rock and metal whirled over his head. He got up again presently and stared back at Tycho. Still the rocks were missing that vital violet beam. He got up, raced toward it in flying leaps in the light gravity.

  Staring into the crater he saw that all of it was covered except one spot of half a mile in
the centre—clearly the one vital spot under which lay the violet-ray machinery. Somehow the boulders had got to be directed right onto the target centre.

  He was baffled for a while, then he unstrapped his heavy torch from his belt. It was possible that giant 500-inch reflector on Mount Wilson would see his signal…He ran to the clear patch, knee deep in isotope, its power zero without the sunshine. Kneeling down he flashed the torch on and off continuously for nearly ten minutes—then he left it on, bulb Earthwards, and hurried to the safety of the crater edge.

  Not five minutes afterwards the rocks started to fall more inward in their flight towards the crater centre. His signal had been seen then. Breathless, he watched. Nearer—nearer— Then there was a direct hit!

  Several things happened at once. A mass of boulders crashed right into the crater’s interior, putting out the violet ray but at the same time hurtling Hart upwards from the force of a titanic explosion. Probably some power had been stored down there to drive machinery and had blown up—

  Hart thought he would never stop rising, so slight was the gravity and so vast the explosion. But that he must fall back he well knew—and to death. His spacesuit would rip. Not that it made much difference anyway. He was doomed—

  *

  It was Beryl’s eager eyes that looked into his as his senses returned. His spacesuit and helmet had gone and he was lying on a rough bed with head propped up.

  “Berry!” he gasped hoarsely. “How—? What—?”

  “You’re all right,” she said softly. “And I’ve radioed back to dad to stop the bombardment. Thank the stars that that explosion blew you up or I might never have found you…”

  She hurried into an explanation.

  “When you said that your machine was wrecked I remembered Doc Andrews having said that there were spaceships in Tri-Konam. I got one overhauled immediately and set off into space without dad’s knowledge. Being new Moon I figured I could make it—and I did. I kept clear of the boulder stream, found you more by accident than design, dropped a gadget this ship has got—an attractor beam — And there we are!”

  Hart nodded slowly, caught her hand.

  “Space is ready,” he said quietly. “Luna is conquered— But does she look different without her streaks and rays!”

  DEADLINE IN SPACE

  The trouble at the Plutonian outpost started in the simplest way. One man ventured outside the outpost in his pressure-suit, stayed too long, and returned with a raving case of cosmosis—or, more literally, cosmic radiation fever. Quite unable to control his actions he shot two of the medical specialists who tried to attend to him. In retaliation two other specialists shot dead the stricken man.

  This was considered inhuman by the small governing body controlling the outpost, but on the other hand several of the settlers agreed with the specialists…So it grew, this bickering and argument amongst some five-hundred men and women, all of them specialised scientists on the System’s farthest world, gathered together in a city under an air-tight dome, surrounded by the black, relentless wastes of Pluto and overhung by the everlasting stars.

  Rapidly the disorders got out of hand. Radio messages began to seep through to faraway Earth. Finally, the Commanding Officer of Commercial Spacelines realized something had to be done—and quickly. So he sent for Irwin Grant, one of the most reliable space-pilots in the Service.

  “Only one thing we can do about this business. Grant,” the C.O. said, when he had given particulars of the Plutonian disorders, “and that is to get some canthite to the Plutonian governors as fast as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” Irwin Grant assented—and waited. He was a forty-year-old man, grim-faced, hard-jawed, and looked as though he had a perpetual grudge against life.

  “Canthite, as you know, Grant, is an atomic by-product which upon explosion produces long-term paralysis. Long enough anyhow for the governors to regain control of the outpost. On the other hand, canthite is difficult stuff to deal with because of its high mutational speed. If it is not transported to Pluto within a given time-limit it will reach that certain stage of its evolution where it explodes with shattering force. The whole thing will be a desperate gamble—a race against time.”

  “Yes, sir,” Grant assented, thinking. “However, given the fastest ship in the Service, and a crew of the toughest rocketeers, I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t make the trip in time.”

  “I knew I chose the right man,” the C.O. smiled. “I know you will probably succeed in scrambling a crew together—and ‘scramble’ is indeed the right term, for only fugitives and down-and-outs are willing to fuel a machine which has a three thousand, three hundred million mile journey to make…The point is, what about the technical side? Whom are you using for first mate?”

  “I think Anderson will fill the bill, sir. Have I your permission to bring him in here?”

  “By all means! Where is he?”

  “Waiting in one of the ante-rooms.”

  The C.O. nodded and pressed the intercom switch at his elbow.

  “Have Mr. Anderson shown in here, please…”

  In a moment or two Anderson entered. He was short, blunt-featured, with wiry black hair. Down his right cheek was a deep-laid vicious scar. He looked both tough and reliable.

  “Robert Anderson?” the C.O. enquired.

  “Awaiting orders, sir.”

  “You have first mate’s papers and navigation credentials?”

  For answer Bob Anderson laid them on the desk. As he did so the C.O. and Irwin Grant exchanged glances. In the eyes of both men there was a significant light as though they had come to a mutual decision over something exclusively between themselves.

  “Yes…” The C.O. bent his head to the papers. “These seem to be in order, Mr. Anderson. Now I’ll give you the details.”

  And for Anderson’s special benefit the C.O. repeated all that he had told Grant. When he knew the facts Anderson merely gave a shrug of his thickset shoulders.

  “Be tough going, sir, but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t make it. I’ll be glad of the privilege to work under Captain Grant.”

  “Good!” The C.O. sat back in his chair. “I understand that you two men are firm friends?”

  “Have been for many years, sir,” Grant acknowledged.

  “All to the good. When the two controllers of a space machine are also firm friends in private life it makes for that mutual understanding so necessary in your work…” All the time he spoke the C.O.’s eyes were studying Anderson pensively.

  There was silence again as the C.O. finished speaking—long-winded as usual, either talking for the sake of it, or else so that he could study these two men who had been assigned to such a dangerous mission.

  “Are there any particular instructions, sir?” Grant ventured at length.

  “They will be sent to your quarters, Grant. Your job now is to get a crew together. When you have done that notify me and I will do the rest regarding the canthite…For the moment that will be all.”

  Both men saluted formally, shook hands with their superior, and then departed. Out in the corridor they relaxed and looked at each other.

  “No easy job,” Anderson commented. “I can’t see the crew taking kindly to it.”

  “Neither can I, but we’ll get one together somehow—” Grant paused and turned as the office door of the C.O. suddenly opened and the brass-hat himself appeared.

  “Oh, you’re still here, Grant! Good! I’ve just contacted the Operational Base and you will be using the ZM/10.”

  Grant’s eyes brightened. “The ZM/10! Why she’s a brand new vessel, sir, isn’t she?”

  “Almost. Had her trials, of course. Certainly the fastest space machine yet built. You should make the trip easily enough in her…She’s down at the Operational Base so I should go and have a look at her whilst you also sign on your crew.” Neither man hesitated any longer. In a matter of minutes a Service helicopter had transported them from the Executive Building to the enormous space grounds, an
d certainly there was no need to try and find the ZM/10. It stood towering amongst its fellow machines, gleaming brightly new from its transparent nose to tapering rocket-exhaust fins.

  “She’s a beaut!” Bob Anderson murmured. “Better give her a look-over.”

  This took both of them an hour, by which time they were satisfied that they had quite the most efficient machine in the Service for their ‘beat-the-clock’ assignment.

  “Come to think of it,” Anderson said, as they strolled back towards the low-built squat edifice where they hoped to get together a crew, “that machine might be capable of coming pretty near the speed of light.”

  “Very possible,” Grant assented. “Even some of the smaller machines have reached the speed of light at times: I know, because I piloted ’em!” He smiled rather sternly for a moment and then changed the subject. “Better see what we can do about a crew.”

  They entered the nearest of the low buildings and looked about them. Here in the great space, looking very much like a one-time Labour Exchange interior, were gathered groups of men and women, talking and idling, waiting for the possibility of a job of some kind in the mighty space fleet. There were all kinds here, from stewards and pursers to hostesses and rocketeers. Some of them skilled, others unskilled—but all of them accustomed to the fantastic life of riding the void.

  Upon the entry of the two uniformed men there was a hopeful stir. Grant stood for a moment and looked over the, assembly, then he turned to the nearest Interview Room, entered it with Anderson beside him, and closed the door.

  “That motley crowd out there should give us what we want.” Grant tugged off his uniform-cap and tossed it down. “But first of all, Bob, let’s get something straight.”